


What's The Matter With Your Next Door Neighbor?/An Act of God, A Freak of Nature

by handful_ofdust



Series: Death Is A Friend (Of Ours) [3]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:50:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2634104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handful_ofdust/pseuds/handful_ofdust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Governor was Brian Blake once, then Philip, then himself. Maybe the liar grows to fit the lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At twenty-seven, Brian Blake is finally almost not unhappy, almost not resentful. He’s doing fine, by most standards; U of G accepts him the way he chooses to present himself, when it deigns to notice his long tall ass at all, and if it feels like it took him twice as long to get here as the rest of the (stupid goddamn rich know-nothing) kids in his classes, that’s hardly their fault. They’re sort of…soothing to be around, he guesses, ‘specially so ‘cause they’re so damn easy to lie to.

  
A slightly different face for every occasion, every context. The roster he’s chosen for himself is utilitarian, utterly functional—he wants to get his degree as quickly as possible but claim it on his CV long before that, start interning and doing paid freelance work under the counter, same way he’d already begun to by the end of his university fund three-job nightmare. Be nice if it wasn’t more than a quarter bullshit, though, ‘cause by the time he finally broke even on first year, he’d already good and burnt some of those damn bridges…which is why it’s a good thing, in retrospect, how he made sure to give at least half his Internet contacts Philip’s name, instead.

  
Sometimes his Dad phones him, and he doesn’t pick up. Sometimes Philip phones him from overseas, line buzzing and clicking, to rag him out about that.

  
"Need to go see him sometime, Bri, or I’m’a fly back next leave and kick your damn ass."

  
"Yeah, sure. You’n what army?"

  
"Don’t laugh, little brother."

  
"I sound like I’m laughin’? He’s _fine,_ Philip, for Christ’s sakes; lyin’ through what’s left of his teeth, if he tells you he ain’t. Stop takin’ his sob stories at face value, makes you look credulous.”

  
"Ooh, college boy. Ten dollar vocabulary ahoy.”

  
"Yeah, well. That’s what they charge me the big bucks for."

  
Brushes it off at the time, but hours after he hangs up, he’s still fuming: Fucking old man, fucking Philip. Fucking _family_. He’s too old for this shit.

  
That night he sees Sarah for the first time, from behind, and gets riveted, staring at the back of her head, willing her to turn ‘round. When she does, it’s like fate, like he willed it into being. He’s lost.

  
_That’s mine,_ he thinks, not knowing why. And sets out to make it so.


	2. Chapter 2

Sarah doesn’t go out with Brian immediately, of course, not by a long shot. Working her’s like a nine-to-five, but that’s probably half the attraction; his usual tricks bounce right off her, hinting that the pay-off’ll be well worth the effort, the investment. Almost laughs straight in his face when he just happens to turn up in the back of her Metaphysics of Whatever-The-Hell 101 course, for example, with his interview suit jacket on and his one pair of nice shoes shined, taking studious notes.

"Didn’t think you really needed more than one Humanities credit to get through Business Accounting," she comments, throwing it up at him like a challenge, and when he gives her a hit of that shy, sidelong smile he’s spent so much time perfecting in the bathroom mirror by way of reply, she all but snickers.

“‘M auditing it, for a friend,” he explains, careful to make the lie obvious, a shared joke: _you see right through me, and I respect that; how’s that for sincere? No ego here, ma’am, just a po’ ol’ country boy trying to make ends meet._ But she still isn’t amused, let alone impressed.

"Oh yeah? So how much’s he paying you, exactly, for the privilege?"

"…twenty-five an hour."

"That cheap, huh? Must cut into your own time a bit, even at only one class a week; might as well just read the texts, stay home, and make the rest of it up."

At this, he shrugs and leans back on his elbows, legs careful-crossed, to avoid kicking the gals in front of him. “Hey, every little bit counts, ma’am. C’mon now, though—rich kids gotta learn too, even when they don’t want to do it in person. ‘Sides which, I never said I’d write his _papers_ for him, after all…”

"Not _yet,_ anyhow."

"Nope. Have to see how much higher he’s actually willin’ to go, for that."

"Wait ‘til exam time."

"I intend to."

Week after week of Shakespeare and Marlowe, John Donne and the Bacon brothers, the Elizabethan chain of being, ‘til finally she takes pity on him and lets him talk her first into coffee, then something stronger at the designated frosh bar, then dinner and a free movie at the Film Studies rec room ( _Falcon and the Snowman,_ Timothy Hutton and Sean Penn, with David Bowie singing “This Is Not America” over the credits, _sha-la-la-la-la_ ).

"Must be awful to want to please your father so badly, and only end up disappointing him," she says, walking out afterwards, with no earthly idea the concept means anything more to him than a character-building cliche, and he nods, but feels constrained to point out: "Wasn’t really like that, though…Boyce’s the one disappointed, with his Dad, the government, everything it stands for. Would’ve given that stuff away for free, ‘cept he knew how it’d hurt the old man twice as hard once things came out, if it seemed like he just did it for the money."

She looks at him then, full on, maybe for the first time ever—stands with both hands on her hips, small and ripe, furrowing her blonde brows like she’s puzzled. And: “Why, Mr Blake,” she says. “Can it be you’ve got hidden depths?”

"Only if you want me to."

A few months later they’re fighting, and she blurts out: “Don’t even know why I _like_ you, sometimes!” To which he growls back, without thinking: “‘Cause it’s always nice to have someone you can feel better than, to stand next to? Or…’cause I’m just so charmin’, maybe,” he suggests, a moment after, tone lightening. “I mean, in a dumb-ass kind of way.”

She considers this, adorably serious, then shakes her head.

"That’s the part I like _least_ about you, actually," she replies.


	3. Chapter 3

In and between, Brian goes about his “normal” course of “business,” since A) he’s still not sure if this courtship BS with Sarah’s ever going to come to much and B) he’s never exactly been one to deny himself, short of being explicitly told to or he’ll get the hide beat off him if he doesn’t. ‘Specially not when the thing concerned (sex of all sorts, without a single hint of strings) is something that’s always been so pitifully goddamn easy for him to grab hold of…since adolescence sent him shooting into the rarified air up above everybody else he knew’s heads, at the very least.

Such a stark contrast, this movable feast of possibility: those just-outta-high school gals he sometimes lets push ‘emselves his way, all hopped up on estrogen and birth control pills, versus the nice older ladies with vague self-esteem issues he’s been pulling almost since he was in high school himself. And that’s all entirely aside from those various younger, hipper guys dressed like cut-rate R.E.M. impersonators who’re just starting to figure out where their own true interests lie, all the while sneaking looks at him across the room and shuffling their feet shyly, now they’re finally out from under their parents’, siblings’, communities’ watchful eyes.

Brian’s pose of choice is making himself seem safe, not actively interested but open to persuasion, both accepting and acceptable—unthreatening, or as much so as anyone his size can be. Being lean instead of muscle-bound is a help, so he keeps his runner’s build by doing a half-mile a day ‘round the track before classes, then hitting the showers, where something almost invariably develops. He’s no doubt things’ll trail off soon enough, so from his point of view, it behooves him to get as much as he can while he’s in his prime; university’s good for that, thank God. A whole lot better than where he started out.

Nevertheless, he sometimes finds himself cycling back around to the hunting grounds of his youth: out on the road, the rougher watering-holes where men with his sort of baseline—urges—tend to congregate, assessing each other aggressively by swapping redneck cultural references, flirting via barely-veiled threat of an ass-kicking. Sometimes these encounters end in fist-fights or parking lot wrestling matches, popped lips and cheekbone bruises, loosened teeth; other times, it’s him and the other guy up against an alley wall or in the back of a truck, though he does draw the line at sharing a toilet stall now he’s managed to talk his way over the academic threshold—it’s _undignified,_ goddamnit. Not to mention unsanitary.

Fact is, he really does _like_ to fight, sometimes even more than the other. It makes him hot. Makes him happy.

Never anything like an apartment or a house at the end of it, though, even if those weren’t usually otherwise occupied: this ain’t _dating,_ after all. And if the same guy looks at him twice, he tends to make it clear he’s not into repeat action; still remembers Philip pulling somebody like that off him at a truck-stop once, when Brian was seventeen, after “no” apparently just wouldn’t do for an answer. Never did quite ascertain if Philip’d actually figured out how his little brother and this particular random barfly “knew” each other, not even after he’d already spent a good half-hour doling out the requisite earful about how _you don’t DO that_ ‘cause _it just ain’t worth it_ and _what you think Dad’d say, he ever caught you—_

(drinking, fighting, doing the dance without pants)

(courting yet one more Blake family police record)

(unzipping real slow, eyes kept elsewhere-but-not-really, ‘til whoever’s at the next urinal finally notices, and licks his lips)

"Expects more outta you, Brian, that’s all," Philip liked to claim, for all he must’ve known different. "Better, like we all do." To which Brian just tended to laugh, even then, and shoot back, without a second’s pause—

“ _No_ he damn well don’t.”


	4. Chapter 4

Years later, in Woodbury, he'll sit there in front of the tanks with drink in hand, thinking: _Be easy enough to blame the old man for everything, I only let myself...him, society, random chance, God. But here's the real truth, sad and hard though it might be—nobody_ made _me what I am, I'm anything like honest. 'Cause_ I _made_ myself.

By then he's Philip, of course, not Brian; that's what he tells people, anyhow. Brian's dead, dead as Sarah. Deader than Penny, before or after.

But no, that's not true either, you just dig a little deeper. 'Cause just like Rick Grimes tends to point out, you only get him pissed enough—one day after council, for example, when they're going at each other hammer and tongs before going at each other in a different way, and twice as hard—his _real_ name isn't Philip _or_ Brian, no more'n it's probably even Blake. He's the Governor underneath it all, no matter what else he may or may not claim; that one thing in all things, for good and always.

Then again, poor Richard remains a hero still for all his efforts to break him of that sad habit, occasional bouts of tiny bowlegged psycho-ness set aside. Just standing next to him's enough, some days: makes the Governor better, or want to _be_ better...same's with Sarah, in her time, and Penny as well. Almost enough to make him forget what he knows too damn well for any sort of lasting comfort, which is that he's simply _not,_ and never will be.

At a certain point, you have to try and accept all those parts of yourself, disappointing though they might be, 'fore the strain of reconciling their inherent dichotomy tears everything you've built apart: well-fit mask-face, possessiveness channelled into protectiveness, a hundred inspiring lies vs. the sheer drive necessary to _will_ them into truth. Just suck it up and work with what you have, all the while remembering how this...

(good and bad, ugly and pretty, bitter along with sweet)

...is about as good as you're ever likely to get.


	5. Chapter 5

Sarah and Brian do sleep together, eventually. It's about six months on, fabled exam time, and both of them are humming with excess energy: Brian already aced his and knows it, even with all that pocket-money paper-writing factored in on top, but under her natural confidence Sarah's not really sure she's done the same, which he finds incredibly endearing. So they sit there kissing for what seems like a half-hour, slow and deep and langorous, 'til he finally gets her hot enough to push him back on the bed and clamber on top.

When she grabs his hand and sticks it up under her skirt, her panties' gusset is soaked right through, wet and hot to the touch—has to steel himself to slip a thumb beneath where leg-hole joins with waist and slip them down far enough he can get two fingers inside, muscles clamping and fluttering like a toothless mouth, almost sweet enough to make him come in his pants. But that's where being a little more experienced comes in handy, he guesses.

After, she starts trying to apologize for not being a virgin, but he stops her right then and there. “Think I care about that, honey? Your body, your choice; you're a full-grown woman, free, white and over eighteen, so if this ain't the time to do exactly whatever you want, I don't know what is.” A beat. “Aw, but look at that: pure perfection, fit to put the rest've the world to shame. Why you gotta be so damn beautiful, exactly? It's distractin'.”

She blushes, looking down. “Not too shabby in that department yourself, Mister Blake.”

“Oh, I'm a junkyard dog with a chewed-up tail compared to you, but that's okay—if one of us's gotta get all scarred up by life's slings and arrows, I'd rather it be me, by far. Now c'mere, and let's try that again.”

He proposes to her that Christmas, getting down on one knee and everything, though she hasn't even taken him home to meet her folks. So it's only right and proper she turns him down; not about to get too bent out of shape about _that,_ 'long as she's still perfectly happy to let him keep her serviced on the regular, which she is. But then they have a pregnancy scare, surprising both of 'em—Brian'd assumed she was on the pill, while Sarah'd been told she was probably infertile due to a bout of fibroids in her early teens. Turns out to be nothing, but apparently, it's a bit of a wake-up call.

Brian pulls out all his tricks to make Sarah's parents like him, and it seems to be working up until her Daddy takes him aside to show him the garage, that new work-bench her Momma surprised him with. And: “Blake,” he begins, as Brian picks up one of those battery-operated multi-head screwdrivers you see on TV. “From over Lambshead way, is that right? Which'd make your father one of the Galliard Blakes, boy who went to Vietnam, maybe.”

“Korea, but yessir, that's him. Got a Purple Heart and a load of shrapnel in his knee, plus an Honorable Discharge.”

“Uh huh. Somewhat of a drinking problem as well, you just ask around.”

“That's so,” Brian agrees, not looking up. “Went to jail for tax evasion twice too, 'cause he's too damn stubborn to file, or get me to file for him; got worse after his wife run off, though he wasn't all sunshine and kittens before that, either, so the one probably explains the other. But I'm not gonna be takin' Sarah home for Sunday dinner anytime soon, if that's what you're worried over.”

“All right, then, I'll be direct: what're your intentions regarding my daughter, Brian?”

“Marry her, make her happy, keep her safe; build a family better'n mine, not that that'd be hard. Stay with her 'til she's dead, or I am.”

“Mmm. And...what on, exactly?”

He feels his face flush, blood rising, barely able to keep his voice level. “Think I want your money, that it? Got a job already, pretty much since first year: one now with one to come and stuff on the side, so I'm doin' just _fine,_ thank you kindly, makin' enough for the both of us to live on and then some. That's even assumin' Sarah's not gonna want to get a job of her own after graduation, which I don't—”

Probably starting to loom a bit here, voice dipping downwards towards full-on growl territory, which may well be why Sarah's Daddy raises a placating hand at this point, telling him: “ _Brian,_ just c'mon, now—calm down, son. Look at it from me and my wife's perspective for a minute, all right? You're older than all the other boys Sarah's dated, from a rough background; barely have a chance to introduce ourselves, and you're already fittin' her up for a wedding dress. I think you can understand why we might be a trifle nervous.”

“Yeah, sure, but my old man's not me, and I ain't—I'm _not_ —him. I've worked hard to get here, for everything; leave me alone and I'll keep right on workin', give her whatever she wants for certain, a fact, not a promise...'cause that's just who I am, who I've made myself into. So yeah, he's a shaky bastard, but me, I'm solid. I get what I want, and I keep it.”

Sarah's father sighs. “You're...not actually makin' me feel all too much better about all this, Brian, sorry to say, though I think you mean well. Maybe it's your choice of words.”

“Sir, you don't know the first damn thing about me.”

“Nothing but what you've told me, no. That's sort of the point.”

That night, he goes home and puts his fist through the cheap plaster wall, making a hole he'll have to pay to get fixed before they'll release his degree. But as it turns out he and Sarah get married anyhow, just a few days after graduation, in a civil ceremony conducted in front of a judge, with neither set of in-laws in attendance.


	6. Chapter 6

Takes over ten years for Brian to get Sarah pregnant again, if he ever actually managed to do it that first time, but that's okay—more'n enough time for the two of them to get to know each other better, knock off those rough edges. Brian moves from contract to contract, organizing businesses' accounting departments, balancing budgets, figuring out what to build on and where to cut. He rarely accepts full-time employment if he can help it, since him and being bossed around directly make for a bad fit, but various economic fluctuations make that hard to sustain.

At one point, Sarah's father does indeed end up offering them financial help, which only makes things worse; Brian shrugs it off, takes in work under the counter 'til he over-extends himself, starts “staying late” on a regular basis, coming home with bruised kuckles and booze-stink on his coat, his pants. Has vague memories of some hick yelling at him, down the length of the pool table: _hey you, office boy, in the tie—think you're pretty fancy, huh?_ And himself growling back, by way of an answer: _why yes I am and yes I do, as a matter of fact; fight this whole bar if I have to, you sons of bitches require further proof..._

Every night he comes home wondering if this's the time she'll pull him aside, demand explanations, but it never is. And after a while, he kind of gets to figure how while she now knows he's even more complicated—read screwed up—than she'd initially thought, she'd rather have a husband with bad habits but unquestioned devotion than admit maybe twenty-two was a bit young to get hitched, let alone to an habitual liar whose public good ol' boy charm covers a multitude of private neuroses.

But it isn't 'til he starts a brawl bad enough he needs stitches and she has to pick him up at the emergency room that she finally demands he tell her what the hell is _wrong_ with him these days, anyhow. To which he initially just thinks _oh, SO many things, baby,_ before hearing himself blurt, instead—

  
“My damn brother died, is all.”

“Brian, Jesus Christ! I...didn't even know you _had_ a brother.”

“Well, that'd be 'cause I don't. Anymore.”

Which sounds so ridiculous, said right out loud, that he immediately starts laughing, though the laughter quickly turns into something else. And then she's holding him, hugging onto him from below with her head tucked tight into his sternum as he covers his face with both hands, listening to his sobs tear up from somewhere deep inside.

“It's all right,” she tells him, soft, eyes respectfully kept shut against the messy, undignified spectacle of his tears. “All right, s'okay, really. You're okay. _We_ 're okay.”

Eventually, Sarah gets a job selling real estate and things settle down, even out: might've gone as far as couples therapy, otherwise, or if she hadn't finally missed her period twice in a row. Thirteen hours of labour follow, with Brian there for all of it, holding Sarah's hand tight enough her nails rip his skin, listening to her rave and curse. But when they put Penny in his arms, it's suddenly worth every moment—looking down on that tiny, squalling face with its fuzz of black hair, its tight-shut eyes. And thinking, way most new fathers probably never would, of their firstborn: _a girl, yeah! Thank goddamn Christ almighty._

He doesn't know what the hell he'd've had to give a boy, in all honesty; too much damn baggage, determinism's weight pressing in, even with genetics set entirely aside. Been pretty much bound to fuck up, no matter how hard he might've tried to do otherwise.

But Penny is perfect, right from the start: someone who's all his, who he can love unconditionally. One more person in this crap-sack world he's willing to kill, or die, for.

(Yes on the first and no on the second, it turns out, 'cause fate's a bitch and God—that bloody-handed _absence_ —a bigger bastard than Brian Blake'll ever be. But it's not like he doesn't do his level best to deliver nevertheless, on both halves of that initial promise.)


	7. Chapter 7

_'Til I die, or she does._ It felt right, at the time; doesn't regret saying it, or anything. A fifty-fifty chance, or maybe sixty-forty, and definitely slanted on his side rather than hers—men live hard and die fast by nature, even when they're not making much of an effort to. It's just math. But...

...he didn't really expect it to _be_ her, ever. That's why it hit so hard and hurt so bad, he thinks, in hindsight—reduced him to a bare shade of himself, a flesh wreck, crushed and crumpled inside same as the car she'd lost her life in.

The very instant Sarah died, it seemed like he started to forget her, and the process was nothing even close to intentional: first a wound his brain flinched from so sharply it refused even to recognize it, then phantom pain, then emptiness. She faded like a fax, nothing left behind but ghosts and shininess, an empty page; can remember he wanted her, even how much—the intensity of it, the _bite_ —but not why. Penny became his everything, 'til one day she was gone as well, and then—

(well, not _gone,_ not immediately)

He still remembers sitting there in the dark with the curtains closed, brushing her hair and humming to her, listening to her snarl and whine. The stink of her skin, decay-cured. And Rick Grimes squatting beside him, both hands spread and voice hushed, like he was talking some jumper down from a bridge; tough, pure little Richard, trying his best to persuade him it was worth it to let her go, start living life for himself again. His one true mistake, always, having lain in his basic assumption that the Governor, Philip—Brian—

(whoever)

—really ever lived for anyone _but_ himself, all along. Rather than only playing at doing so, hoping to thus trick his traitor heart into being self _less,_ instead of self _ish._ Pretending to lie himself into being more than some king-size puppet for his own plans and schemes, his wilful shark's instincts, all cold, dark hunger and forward-moving rage

Love does have to go somewhere, though, he guesses, even what minimal and stunted amount of it he has to offer. From Sarah and Penny to Penny only, then from Penny to Rick and wider, lapping in Lilly and Meghan Chambler—it spills from vessel to vessel, passes through him like a conduit leaving never a trace behind and all the rest of him empty as ever, with nothing to show for the bargain but a pain-greased trail of other's people's misfortune.

Still, even now—even after all that's passed, since—the Governor can never quite forget how, on the road out of Atlanta, he once saw Rick Grimes riding towards him with his hat pulled down and that bag of guns slung across his back, grim as any gunslinger. And thought, again without knowing why: That's _mine too, right there, him; now or later, but forever. Bring him to me, brain. Help me make it so._

While a mere second later, he waved the convoy to a halt, stepped down from his perch, slid a gentling hand up under Rick's horse's bridle...

...and did.


	8. Chapter 8

Ironically enough, Sarah's life insurance pays out well enough that Brian could afford to quit his job and raise Penny full-time if he wanted, but he doesn't. Part of it's routine and part therapy, the sly lure of having somewhere else to be vs. a schedule to force himself back into shape rather than just drinking all night and sleeping all day, like he actually yearns to. Another part of continuing to come in to the office, however, is strictly all about revenge: the cheap thrill of penalizing that asshole hipster boss of his for keeping him away from the phone when Sarah called, going full Jerry Lundegaard with all the information he damn well knows that prick needs in order to keep this ridiculous little business of his solvent.

“Brian, did you send in those budget reports, or what?”

“'Course I did, Ross; know how important they are, after all. You tellin' me you didn't get 'em?”

“Not for two days now.”

“Huh, well, that's odd: sent 'em just last night. Sure there's not a problem with your email? Oh well, don't worry—we got plenty of time 'fore that filing comes due, and even after that they'll probably let it slide, you just talk to 'em nice. I'll send 'em again.”

But there's only so much fun you can have jerking Ross's chain, especially while you'te still in mourning, and it starts to pall pretty quick once Brian realizes there's no way they're going to fire him just for being passive-aggressively recalcitrant; not 'til they lose the contract in question entirely, any rate. So when Z-Day dawns, he's lying in bed with the sun in his eyes, still blurred from three whiskies and a sixer of beer he put down the night before, hangover strong enough to make him twitch all over once Penny starts knocking at the door.

“Daddy,” she begins, hesitant, “Flipper stopped barking.”

 _Finally,_ is what he thinks—dog's been trying to kill that tree in the middle of the back yard for what feels like three days straight, maybe to get it back for kicking his ass the week before. But: “Okay, honey,” is all Brian says, mouth gummed up yet cotton-dry, too parched to spit. “I'll...just take a little look outside, see what's goin' on.”

“Mister Zizek's out there, from next door? He looks weird.”

Probably drunk, the creepy old son of a bitch. “Don't worry 'bout it, just stay back an' let me handle things, okay, pumpkin? Remember, Mister Zizek's care worker said he gets confused, so let's not all come at him at once.” She nods, and he smiles down at her, drawing one in return. “Now go watch your cartoons or somethin' while you get ready for school, so's I can run you over on my way to work. We'll hit the IHOP for breakfast, how'd that be?”

“Can I have waffles?”

“You know you can. Maybe we both will.”

Another nod and she's off, ribboned hair flipping. Brian yawns, then cracks his back and heads for the door, where he looks out for a minute, frowning. Nothing to see, not at first...not 'til he spots Zizek down on hands and knees amongst Sarah's geraniums with his pants around his ankles, shirt just skimming what looks for all the world like a bare, upturned butt. Must've had some kind've stroke while on the toilet and staggered outside, then fallen when he hit the strip of gravel demarking one yard from the next, is all he can think; maybe that explains the dirt on the old man's hands and face, dirt and something else, what almost looks like—

(blood, holy God, that's goddamn _blood_ )

Grabs up that big wooden rolling-pin of Sarah's before he even thinks about it, and he's already banging through the door on full charge, yelling: “ _Get the hell away from my daughter's_ dog, _you crazy old fuck!_ ” Which is probably _not_ what you want the neighbors to hear out've you first thing in the morning, you really want to keep your ass out of lock-up, but—whole bottom half of Zizek's face is painted red, meat-splattered and tufted with honest-to-God clumps of dog-hair, like he's been using Flipper's throat for a fake beard. The mutt in question's been dead at least a few minutes, still twitching slightly, guts all pulled out and strewn hither and yon; it's like some fucking _CSI_ crime-scene nightmare, or would be, the victim was someone other than a household pet.

That's when Zizek takes a weird kind of truncated jump at him, trips on his own pants and goes down once more, grabbing for Brian's calf; gets hold of it and pulls, sending Brian ass over teakettle, then tries to chomp down on the muscle like it's a steak, feeble old man choppers masticating bruisingly at the flesh underneath, even as they simultaneously go slipping off the fibre-count of Brian's khakis. On pure instinct, Brian swings the pin like a baseball bat, connecting with Zizek's skull, and knocks him clear—but he gets up again, or tries to, so Brian hits him again, again, again. On the third strike there's less a bone-breaking _crack_ than a mushy _thump_ and Zizek's face-down on the lawn, whole back of his skull crushed in like an egg.

 _I killed him,_ Brian thinks, queasily. _Seventy-somethin' retiree, and I_ murdered _his saggy behind just for killin' Penny's puppy. Christ, it's my turn in jail for sure now—carry on the family tradition, all that. Sarah's folks'll get custody, never see my little girl again..._

That's when Penny calls him from inside, voice high and panicked, to see what-all's on TV instead of _Go Diego, Go!_ And that, right then, is when they learn how much the world has changed overnight.

Couple of hours later they're in the mini-van driving towards Brian's office, back stocked up with as much water, canned food and other accoutrements as Brian could scavenge from his own house before looting Mister Zizek's. Turns out Zizek amassed a fairly extensive gun collection before he started losing his marbles, so some bright spark—maybe the care worker—must've moved it out to the garage, thinking he'd never find it. And given it took Brian all of ten minutes to crack that particular puzzle once he came across a bunch of empty Beretta clips in Zizek's desk drawer, he does wonder a trifle over the logic involved...but since whoever made the call's probably just as dead as Zizek by now, it's sort of a moot point.

“Why are you still goin' to work, Daddy?”

“'Cause they got doors that only work on security-badges there, honey, and if we can lock the elevators, the stairwells oughtta keep the rest of these things out. We can hole up, watch from the windows, get a better idea of what's goin' on down on the street, 'stead'a waiting for danger to come to us.”

“I'm scared.”

“I know you are, pumpkin—I am too. But we got each other, right? I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, never. Not _ever._ ”

Rounding the corner, they run up smack-dab against a milquetoasty-looking guy in glasses who's trying his level best to wrestle three of these infected freaks—these _biters_ —away from a middle-aged woman who's already been chewed up several times over. Got a suit and a tie on like he's about to teach class, all Tennessee Williams, but he's at least had the good sense to wrap duct tape 'round his neck and down along his arms like gauntlets, a makeshift version of kevlar or riot gear. And it's working, to a point; not for much longer, though.

On impulse, Brian screeches the van to a halt and jumps out, pin in one hand, gun in the other. He makes short work of the corpses, then pulls Professor Whiz-Kid free. “Help me!” the woman whispers, coughing blood, but Brian just shakes his head.

The glasses guy turns paler than ever, protesting: “Surely you could—”

“Uh uh: she's gonna turn, you must'a seen the news, and I can't have that. My daughter's in that van.”

“Well no, I didn't mean...what I _meant_ is, you could—help her. Another way.”

The guy looks at Brian's gun, eyebrows hiking. And since Brian's not stupid, it only takes a half-second more for him to understand.

“Sorry, ma'am,” he tells the woman, as she starts to scream. Then sights on her temple, one clear shot, for maximum impact.

(Guess there really was a _point_ to all that hunting and shooting shit his old man made him and Philip practice on every summer after all, he thinks, in and between the punitive chess matches.)

“Thank you,” the man says, quietly, to which Brian simply nods.

“We need to get inside,” he replies. “You comin', or what?”

“Oh yes, thank you again.” He puts out one hand, palm moist and shaking, like they're at some goddamn garden party. “Milton Mamet.”

And: “Philip,” Brian hears himself reply, without a moment's hesitation. “Philip Blake.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sometimes the Governor does wonder what happened to the old man, after. Thinks about him waking up to a world full of dead people, barricading himself in that shit-heap of a house he kept threatening to leave to one of them and shooting at 'em out the window 'til he runs out of ammo, grimly hanging on 'til he either starves to death or eats his last bullet. In better moods, he finds himself hoping the bastard died in his sleep then just blundered 'round that crap-choked bedroom of his like a bee in jar 'til he was too rotten to move anymore, unable to remember enough about how doorknobs worked to set himself free.

  
“Philip tells me you're gettin' hitched,” the son of a bitch'd had the gall to lead with, last time he called and Brian actually picked up, to which Brian all but rolled his eyes: _oh yeah, uh huh, thanks for_ that, _big brother._ “University gal, I guess. How much she really know 'bout you, anyhow?”

  
“More'n _you,_ probably, at this point...I mean, 'sides from me not bein' Philip. Like I really needed to be reminded of that the once, let alone every damn day.”

  
“Uh huh. She know your Mama was a slut?”

  
“Never came up, believe it or not.” Paused, then added, as if it'd just occurred to him: “Then again, maybe you should've thought to ask first 'fore you went ahead and married her, that sad fact still upsets you so damn much.”

  
Could almost hear the old man shaking his head over the wire, curt and dismissive, like: _all right, smart-ass._ And: “Naw, but I think I maybe better call her up, set that poor kid straight,” that voice continued, not even skipping a beat. “Tell her she's fixin' to tie herself to a cheat an' a liar, a violent little shit, a whoreson bastard I should'a thrown out the house back when he was still small enough to lift...”

  
“Leave her the fuck alone, is what you'll do. Her and me too, from now on.”

  
“Maybe I will and maybe I won't. What're you gonna do, to stop me?”

  
 _Set Philip on you,_ Brian thought, but didn't say. Just snapped, instead: “Absolutely nothin', 'cause that's exactly what you're worth—to me, as well as everybody else. Don't approve of how I run my life? Well, tough shit, 'cause you're damn right I'm gonna marry her; right there in church, up in front've everybody. Marry her and be better, a whole new person...”

  
“All you're ever gonna be's exactly what you are, _Brian_ : some bitch's by-blow I let keep my last name, mainly 'cause I couldn't figure out how it benefitted me not to. Can't outrun yourself, no matter how hard you try. Now Philip, he's a _real_ man, better'n either of us; oughtta pattern yourself on him, not that it'd help. A soldier and a hero, always does the right thing—”

  
“Oh, Philip's a moron and so're you; finally got him over there and he's gonna come back in a box, any day now, and I'm just gonna _laugh._ Man, I feel so lucky not to give a damn 'bout what you think of me anymore, you can't even imagine.”

  
The old man'd snorted. “Good luck with that,” he said, and hung up.

  
Absolute _last_ time he saw him, meanwhile, was while delivering the news of Philip's death: With Great Bravery in the Service of a Just Cause, Your Country Thanks You, etcetera, etcetera. Waited long enough that the visit happened to coincide with Penny's birth, mainly so's he could slip that in while the old man stood there speechless, face frozen, staring down at the paper in his hand: _by the way, my wife and me had a kid, a daughter; you'll never know her, I'll make sure of it. Enjoy the rest of your life,_ Dad.

  
No point to the whole exercise, though, in the end, 'specially since he knew well enough what the result would be, before it even happened. His father—close enough as he'd ever had to one, anyway—barely lifting his head to reply, voice entirely monotone: _Oh yeah? And what was it you thought I'd want with some bastard's bastard, anyhow?_

  
Which was fair enough, Brian Blake guessed—that, or nothing like it. And no damn difference at all, either way, to anyone but himself.

  
 _They don't love you like I love you,_ he remembers whispering since, in the hot dark, to Sarah, Penny, Meghan and Lilly Chambler, Rick Grimes. _No one ever will._ Then silently adding inside his skull, after the fact—

  
 _...oughtta thank God for that, probably._


	10. Chapter 10

It's Caesar Martinez first starts calling him Governor, probably 'cause Brian—no, _Philip_ —is still wearing his khakis when they turn up to rescue Martinez from what used to be his wife and kids, like he's going door to door doing some kind of political poll. But office drag just doesn't jibe with Philip, or his own vague remembered version of him—a thousand childhood and young adult memories, hastily run through a Saturday afternoon war movies filter—so he starts reshaping himself piece by piece, acting on “instinct.”

It's Philip who picks out that quilted vest on a supply run, therefore, for a suggestion of uniform that doesn't pretend to the title, just like it's Philip breaks the glass at that army surplus store, reaching in for what'll become “his” Bowie knife. It's Philip who cuts his way through whole hallways full of biters, tutors Penny in chess, unwinds with a slug or two of whisky at the end of the day without getting drunk, or not enough so to notice. When Philip talks, he doesn't get upset and lose his place, try to play on people's sympathies or charm them only to do neither. His voice goes straight down, rumbling deep in the chest, and people _listen._

Being Philip is both easier than he expects and harder, but whenever he feels his grip on it start to slip, he only has to look at Penny...to know she's the one he's doing this for, making himself into someone capable of keeping her alive, and if he can only do that then it'll all be worth it. Her eyes on him, wary but worshipful, are all he ever needs; nothing else can compete, and most of the people they've picked up along the way get that very clearly. Aside from Milton, that is, who keeps shooting him these sad, suggestive looks, pining for his attention so distinctly it becomes a bit of a running joke.

  
“Need to put that guy out of his misery, Gov,” Martinez tells him, sidelong, as they're shoring up the elevator doors once again, after so many zombies mass outside that their weight breaks the ground-level lobby windows of Martinez's apartment building in. To which Philip simply laughs, not unkindly, and shoots back: “Me and Milton? Hah! I'd break him in half.”

  
“Yeah, probably. But y'know, that's how some dudes like it.”

  
“Uh huh, and some women, too. Don't mean we gotta give it to 'em.” A pause, briskly pounding in two more nails, in quick succession. “Quite the opposite, really.”

  
But then again: _some people want to get punished,_ the old man whispers, in one mental ear. _Keep comin' back for more, and who're we to refuse, if that's how God set it up? How you think I got your Mama t'agree to marry me, anyways?_

  
 _Always heard it was 'cause you knocked her up._

  
_Well, that too. But that ain't exactly gonna be a problem here, now, is it?_

  
What neither Martinez nor any of the others they've rescued know, however, is that he and Milton already consummated this weird little flirtation of their at least once, near the end of that first week, back when Philip was still halfway Brian and casting 'round desperately for more of a long-range plan than _make it through tomorrow, repeat, repeat, repeat._ Penny'd spent two days and a night straight vibrating with fear, hugging onto her Daddy from behind and begging him not to go out, not even to get a better look at exactly what drove those herds that eddied up and down the streets outside; had to feed her Benadryl scavenged from old Mrs Saathi's reception desk, a hypochrondriac's cornucopia of over-the-counter medicines, then barricade her inside a supply closet just so they could start clearing out the rest of the building's floors before one of the creatures they'd heard moaning through ceiling and floor found a way to get through to them.

  
Though somewhat useless in close combat, Milton soon proved adept at figuring out where biters were likeliest to cluster, and his advice about how to zombie-proof yourself using only the most basic items was invaluable. All he wanted in return was protection, food and a certain amount of experimental materials, which Philip certainly didn't begrudge him, even if he initially thought Milton's research nothing more than a mad scientist's glorified coping strategy, a morbid kind of doodling.

  
“How long do you think it takes most to reanimate?” Milton asked Philip, who shrugged, replying: “My neighbor, Mister Zizek, he'd already been...like that...for most've the morning, I think, when Penny finally noticed what he was doin' with our dog. Ross, though—remember him? Man I shot on our way up?”

  
“The one you said was your boss.”

  
“Yeah, well—I got him in the chest, took him a minute or so to die proper, but when we tried to get by him he came jumpin' up at us all of a sudden, like the son of a bitch was on strings, so I had to put one in his skull. Very different.”

  
“I agree. You know I examined him, later on...”

  
“Didn't _know,_ just assumed, considerin' how long you took gettin' him into the conference room, while I was calmin' Penny down. What'd you find?”

  
“He had bites—one on his arm, another on his thigh, small-jawed, probably female. Made some attempt at cleaning them, bandaged himself up; if we checked his car's GPS, I think we'd be able to confirm he tried for at least one hospital, maybe two, before ending up here. He was running with sweat when you killed him, flushed, probably feverish. I have to think he fought infection for quite some time, then lapsed into an hallucinatory state. And the fact that he returned here, that so many people who work here did, even post-mortem...”

  
“Ah, So _that's_ why you asked if I recognized anybody, outside. Why would they do that, you think?”

  
“Well, it's just a thesis, but...the closer the infected get to—changing, the more they appear to revert to patterned behavior, whatever routine they're most familiar with. The man across the street outside the east-facing window, at the gas station, moving back and forth between the pumps; the woman at the west-facing food truck, just standing there, 'til something attracts her attention...”

  
“Lizard-brain stuff.”

  
“The infection might cluster there, destroying higher functions: memory, personality. Or—perhaps it doesn't _destroy,_ so much, as divert, cut off. Perhaps...some of it's retrievable, if we only found a way.”

  
Philip snorted. “No proof of that, Mister Mamet.”

  
“Not yet, Mister Blake.”

  
“Call me Philip if you want to, Milton.”

  
“...thank you, I'll do that. Philip.”

  
Maybe an hour later, Penny still safely dozing, they'd somehow ended up in Ross's former office, making out on the floor with Philip leant back against the wall and Milton crushed up close, both their pants unzipped and Milton's pulled halfway down, for easier access: not a _small_ man, really, for all he did his level best to seem so. “You need t'be _quiet,_ ” Philip warned him, not wanting to risk Penny walking in on them and getting confused, and damn if the poor man didn't mainly manage to be, even with those muffled, breathy little squeaks he occasionally let slip, whenever things got particularly heated; likely enough it might've been his first time doing anything similar, which is more than a little sad, in hindsight.

But Philip's little girl sleeps like the dead, always has, which meant they had time to manage it without interruption, ending up panting and sticky in the aftermath—Milton with finger-bruises spanning both hips but Philip sore too, like his dick'd been peeled. Been a long time since he'd taken somebody's virginity, let alone remembered why it wasn't always as much fun as advertised.

  
“Don't get to thinkin' we're boyfriends, now,” Philip told him, eventually. “This was stress relief, not a proposal.” And: “I understand,” Milton replied, soft, into Philip's shoulder.

  
“Well, that's all fine and good, then; wouldn't really do, would it, considering? 'Sides which, I need your mind on other things, goin' forward.”

  
“Such as?”

  
“Such _as,_ advise me on what best to do next, so's I can tell other people about it. So's we can beat this thing.”

  
“I'm not...sure it's beatable, really.”

  
“Survivin', _that_ 's how we beat it. Keepin' Penny alive. Save as many as we can, get someplace we can defend better'n this, put these dead bastards down wherever we find 'em. You in, or out?”

  
A bit of a blush, but this time Milton's voice was firmer, more certain. Assuring him: “In. I mean, you can count on me to...well. I'll do whatever you need. Philip.”

  
 _Obviously,_ Philip remembers thinking, but only nodding in return. “Good,” he repeated. “That's good. Can't hide in here forever, so tomorrow we start lookin' for back-up. Yes?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“'Til then, though...”

  
...and here's where he pressed Milton back, slid his way down past the man's soft underbelly, mouthing at him hotly. Heard him gasp and start to groan, then choke it off, hissing instead; sucked him in deep while slipping a finger back inside and hooking, catching that oh-so-useful spot inside once, twice, 'til things went off like a pressure-hose. A small enough service in context, 'specially considering it probably wouldn't be happening again anytime soon; a memory-maker, something to build on and keep Milton warm at nights when Philip was busying himself elsewhere, as he inevitably would.

  
'Cause the plain truth is, naturally submissive's never been something interests the Governor all too much—not in a man, or even a woman. He'd ever tried to treat Sarah the way Milton lets him, she'd have slapped him right across the face, and been right to. No, what he wants is spark, fight, a creditable threat, a challenge to be met, and matched, and broken; Milton's too gentle for any of that, by far. So it's only later, in the wake of Penny's...accident, that Philip turns to him again: clings to him desperately, devoutly, much the same way he wants to believe those crazy theories of his. Anything to get her back again. _Anything_ to make her stay.

  
Not quite worth another go 'round in the figurative bedroom, though, even then. Not once Rick Grimes finally hoves into sight.


	11. Chapter 11

“You treat me like a damn dog,” Merle Dixon'll complain bitterly, a few years on, to which the Governor'll simply nod, not even bothering to debate it. “I do,” he'll agree, “since you let me. That's how you want it, so that's how I give it to you—no big mystery, really. Just natural selection at its finest.”

  
“Yeah, sure. Same way my Daddy done, all me an' Daryl's goddamned lives.”

  
“No doubt. But then again, how you think I know to? We all got our Daddies, Mister Dixon.”

  
“Never do Officer Friendly like that, though, I'll bet...”

  
“Think he'd take it, if I tried?” The Governor'll snort, shake his head. “Nope, not him. Not even close.”

  
Merle'll pooch his lip out, mutinous. Muttering, as he does: “One of these days, I'm gonna—” But that's where the Governor'll stop him, right in his tracks—slap him down in the street, one sharp crack of palm to cheek, a flesh rifle-shot. Watch the man turn red, then white, and still hold his eyes coolly throughout, utterly unimpressed; put his other hand on his gun-butt and let it linger there suggestively, knowing he doesn't have to make one damn move else to get his point across.

  
And: “Nothin', that's what you're 'gonna' do,” he'll growl back, dark as ditch-water and twice as cold. “'Cause Rick Grimes is off limits, regardless of whatever opinion you may've formed about him; part've my toolbox, just like you, 'less you want to tell me different. But while you're a hammer—useful in itself, but only for certain types of jobs—he's something entirely different: a bullet, a scalpel, the feather in my goddamn cap. Rick's the white flag gets fools to think I'm being reasonable, then covers me up so I can sail in undetected, to do what has to be done; doesn't even know it's happenin' most of the time, and that's fine with me, since even if he does catch on I can always persuade him to my way of doin' things, eventually. Do anything to jeopardize that, and it's back on the road for you, your brother—I'll lay you out and set your ass on fire, burn you alive in the village square and make everybody watch, I only take a mind to. So just stick to wrestlin' biters and fuckin' up on your own time, and maybe we'll see what comes to pass later on, if you're good.”

  
“I'm never good.”

  
“Aw, you're good enough, within limits. Could be better, though, for my purposes.”

  
“So just tell me what to _do_ , goddamnit, 'stead'a all the time makin' me guess—”

  
“Sssh, boy: all's I need you to do is keep it in your pants, lit and fig: just watch, learn and shut the hell up while you're at it, plus keep away from Rick, you know what's good for you. Think you can handle all that, or did I pick a born loser, after all?”

  
“...I can handle it, all right. Sir.”

  
“Good.”

  
Funny how things turn out, always. 'Cause oddly and unpredictably enough, beneath his gruff exterior, Merle's just another version of Milton, albeit without the pretty ways or commitment to hygeine; nothing but another broke-in dog, in the end, scrabbling after strokes and affection-scraps, baseline-afraid to draw close enough to get kicked. But Rick is different, bless his stubborn hero's soul. He wants to _help,_ and the Governor's happy to let him try, even though he knows it's nothing but a sinful waste of both their times. Gladly do whatever it takes to pull him in again and again, keep him gravity-snared and orbiting, close enough to grab hold of. To throw him up against any random wall at will, and _kiss,_ hard enough to taste each other's blood—

  
(Ah, well.)

  
 _All got our vices,_  he'll think, smiling slightly, another drink well in hand, _and mine are pretty simple, all told...not to mention good for Woodbury, too, in the long run. Two birds, one stone. Got a sort'a simple elegance to it, don't it?_

  
Good line; he'll have to take note of that one, file it away. Not to mention find someplace best to use it, later on.


	12. Chapter 12

Should've, would've, could've. That's all he can think, sitting there with her in his arms, Milton hovering nervous at his elbow, yammering stuff about _Philip, be careful,_ please; _Philip, give her to me, I'll take care of it...her...; Philip, you need to be prepared._ Makes him want to flatten the bastard, just back-hand him into next week, but all he does is sit there frozen instead, intent, cupping her silent face, feeling the fever-sweat cool. Watching the light fade from her by degrees leaving nothing but a shell, a half-cup of virus sloshing 'round under a rind of meat, and waiting, waiting, waiting—for it to open her eyes—

  
 _Be prepared,_ Christ: as if he ever _could_ be. As if.

  
How it happened was fast and dirty, impossible to track 'til it was over and done, irreparable. They got separated coming out of the camp, swerving to avoid gunfire—radioed a meet-point to Martinez, for after, then took off in the opposite direction, making for whatever shelter might keep them safest as the firebombing started. That's how they ended up here, the meat-locker of a strip-mall butcher's shop, fighting through hordes to jam the door closed from the inside, as that first strike crisped everything in front of them: reaching hands, snarling faces, rotten scarecrow bodies.

  
Hours in the dark with Penny pressed against him, crying, and it wasn't until the noise finally stopped—'til Milton struck a match—that they found out what for.

  
Hours more after that, then, with her fever spiking, hallucinating wildly: thought she was at Disneyland for some of it, wearing her princess dress; thought Sarah was there, holding her hand. While the Governor just sat there hugging her tight and thinking in return, over and over, an aimless rosary drone:

  
 _Should've given her a gun and made her fire it, _made_ her kill anything got in her way, alive or dead. Showed her how these biters're nothing but puppets, not worth the energy to be afraid of, 'sides from basic caution; how much fun they are to break, especially the grosser ones. Shouldn't've been so damn soft on her, basically, 'cause what's softness get you anyhow, in this world? Nothing: dead meat, dead weight. It gets you—_

  
(killed)

  
That's all, nothing more. Gets you gone, just like Sarah, like Brian; like everything they used to know, all that ridiculous shit they used to put so much stock in. All that useless chaff, blown towards the fire their own army set, on a stinking, corpse-breath wind.

  
 _She was just a little_ girl, _though, “Philip,”_ Brian chimes in—what's left of him—from the back of his divided, buzzing head. _Lovable, loved; wanted you to be her Daddy, not her damn drill sergeant. Remember how that felt, huh? How you swore you'd never..._

  
Swore a lot of things in his time, though, he longs to snap back—out loud, even, 'cept that that'd send probably poor Milton into the screaming meems for sure. And what did any of it get him? Used to think he could lie his way to any truth eventually, he only tried hard enough, but it turns out, that's just not so. Never was, and never will be.

  
 _You liked it, though, that's the real deal,_ another voice says, slyly—dry and old, deeper down, not Brian and not the old man either, but something...someone...else. _Keeping her weak, dependent, being the rock she clung to. Being_ strong, _”for her.” And how'd that work out? Like it tends to, mostly, 'cause you're anything but reliable, in the crunch; just ask all those people in your notebook, all those crossed-out names. Saved 'em, then let 'em die, 'cause you just didn't care enough to keep 'em alive. 'Cause the only one who mattered to you was her—and you fucked THAT up, didn't you, in the end? Same way you always knew you would, from the very beginning._

  
But no, _no._ Hell with that voice, with all the voices. Hell with everything but what _he_ says goes, from now on: Philip Blake, not Brian; Sarah's widower, Penny's grieving father. The Governor.

  
 _Be afraid of me, she saw what I am now,_ he'll tell Milton, later on, or maybe Rick Grimes, depending. _And she'd be right to be, 'cause_ I...am...terrible, _a scary, scary thing, for sure—but if I'd only been this way from the very beginning, my Penny'd still be alive today. And I'd've paid the price of her hating me forever gladly, to keep her alive just one more goddamn day._

  
 _Fairness is for sissies,_ the old man used to take pride in saying, after all, whenever either of 'em complained; _wish in one hand and shit in the other, see which fills up faster._ And it's always the stuff like that which sticks, in the end, isn't it? Like mud on a wall. 

  
_I'm so hot, Daddy._ That's the last thing she says to him, or maybe just the last one he remembers—crooning to her in the darkness, that old lullabye, wrapping her up in his coat like a rabbit-skin. Knowing he's gonna need to keep her close but restrained, tied tight, for when it's all...over. For after.

  
 _You have to let her go, Philip,_ Milton tries to tell him, choking off part-way, once the Governor raises his eyes towards him: red-rimmed and awful, a balked tiger's glare. Because why would he DO that, ever, give up what's his? The one and only thing he has left that he cares for, loves, far more deeply than he's ever loved himself?

  
Oh, but wait: what's this, what's happening? God, Christ, Jesus Christ Almighty, _yes:_ here she comes, here she comes. Stirring in his grip now, mewling, teeth starting to grind—casting 'round for something to latch onto, take a bite out of. Here she comes, his pretty, stupid, wonderful little girl. Here she comes, finally, back to him again.

 _ _  
“__ Penny,” the Governor names her, voice worn hoarse and thin, stroking her dead-but-not cheek even as she snaps at his fingers. “Penny, baby, don't be scared—it's me, Daddy. Gonna see you right, honey. No one's gonna take you away from me, not for long. You'll be fine, you'll see. You'll see.”

 _ _  
__He won't be able to use her as a crutch anymore, as camouflage; have to leave her behind for now, like she is, and come back later. But Milton'll help, he won't refuse him, he'll never tell. They'll scout out a place, lock her in, make sure she's safe, and then...meet up with Martinez, make their escape, find somewhere better, a true haven. He'll come back for her, and she'll know to wait, 'cause he'll tell her to. 'Cause she always does what he tells her.

 _ _  
__And people will feel sorry for him, too, when they find out. They'll admire his fortitude, how he manages to cope, to set a good example in the face of all this grief, this death. He can laugh about that inside all he wants, but it'll save lives, for real this time. The lie that breeds the truth. The truth inside the lie.

  
If he ever has it over to do better, he will, he knows that—given one more chance, another kick at the parental can, his next daughter will whip this sorrowful newfound life of theirs, like Hell's own judge with his scorpions. Death'll claim no dominion over _her._

 _ _  
__But for now...

  
“I love you, baby,” the Governor tells this awful thing pinned in his arms, this squirming sack of blind, questing hunger; same as any infant, really, give or take the variety of smell. “Always. And I'll bring you home, just you wait. All you gotta do is be patient, can you do that for Daddy? Yeah, I know. I know.”

  
(My good, good, obedient little girl.)

  
Then presses his lips to her forehead, ignoring how Milton Mamet strains to stifle a retch, beside him. And sets about getting her safely wrapped for transport.


	13. Chapter 13

In the future, in Woodbury, the Governor wraps his hand 'round Rick Grimes's neck even as he sticks his tongue down his throat and feels Rick's captive Adam's apple flutter against his palm, hears him scrape up a dry, growling little murmur could mean consent as much as protest. Moments later, meanwhile, they're right in the thick of it, squirming drunkenly astride each other in that leather-backed chair by what used to be the door to Penny's room; Rick's already found his way back on top, as he will throughout this thing of theirs, more often than not.

  
Takes a firm grip on the Governor's wrists and wrestles him back down, presses him prone, accessible; kicks his long legs apart so he can slot his terrier-sized self in between, from knee to groin to the whole sinewy, compact length of him, gnawing at the Governor like he aims to eat his face off mouth-first. Then seizes the Governor's lip between his teeth and grinds, ever so slightly, setting a shower of sparks off behind his rolled-back eyes: this druggy lure of shifting power, of allowing his own downfall, revelling in the thrill of being done to, done for, done over. Of controlling, even in his—very temporary—loss of control.

  
 _You have to let her go,_ Rick told him, and in that moment he knew it for nothing but true, finally, no matter what bright dreams of reunion Milton might continue to drop in front of him, a sad kitten's mouse-trail laid in deference for some far larger, alpha cat. But better yet, he knew it wasn't really losing anything, so long's he got something else in return: this man, only true friend he's made since the world flipped upside-down, suddenly turned something more.

  
Blame it on the whisky tonight, sure, but what'll they blame it on tomorrow, or the next day? What'll they blame it on for the rest of both their lives, linked like they are now, and from now on?

  
 _That's mine,_ the Governor remembers thinking, on the road—and so Rick was, obviously, tin star laid entirely aside. So he always will be, like God's own gift, like fate. Like marriage.

 _Get what I want and I keep it,_ he thinks, now, not remembering the last time he said that out loud, or to who. But it sounds good, it sounds solid. _'Til I'm dead, or she is—_ he _is—_

Well, one or the other, either; doesn't matter much, he guesses. Not so long as the Governor's actually the one dies _first,_ this time.


	14. Chapter 14

Knows _better_ than to ask stupid questions when drunk by now, he really does, but sometimes, they just spill out of his mouth regardless. Which is how the Governor finds himself demanding of Milton, one late night in the lab, in front of the head-tank: "Need you t' tell me what you see, when you look at me—straight out, no shilly-shallying. Why I do the shit I do, 'cause it frankly baffles even me, most've the time."

  
"Well, I'm—not a psychiatrist, Philip, so—"

  
"Not really a scientist either, are ya? But you know things; you've read books, all that. So go on, give it a try: diagnose me." A silent beat; cajoling: "Look, I'm not gonna _hurt_ you over something _I_ asked for, if that's what you're worried about, no matter what you come up with. Not even if you get it right."

  
"Didn't think you _would,_ it's just, uh...I wouldn't want to presume."

  
"Aw, that's no fun! Presume away, little man. Surprise me."

  
But Milton just hems and haws, and eventually he gives up; isn't worth the effort for so little payback in terms of amusement, not even the quotidian fun of watching the man squirm, caught somewhere between social embarassment and badly-disguised arousal.

Isn't until much later, going through the detritus of Milton's room, after he's already blown himself up in weird solidarity with Rick Grimes's three-way zombie attack on Woodbury, that the Governor eventually discovers a notebook he's never seen before, flips it open and reads, up top of the very first page: _Philip Blake, Diagnostic Observations: Borderline Personality Disorder._

  
Might've heard the term before, once or twice—on soap operas, and the like, or in magazines. Mostly in reference to women, though he supposes there're exceptions to every rule of thumb. The main signifiers being difficulty with identity, “markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self” (check); intense interpersonal relationships balanced by fear of “real or imagined” abandonment, with “extremes of idealization and devaluation” (check); impulsivity “in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging—for example, spending, sex,” zombie-killing without a net (check, check, fuckin' check)...

  
 _Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g., intense episodic dysphoria [a profound state of unease or dissatisfaction], irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days);_

_  
Chronic [recurring or constant] feelings of emptiness;_

_  
Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights);_

_  
Transient [temporary], stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms._

  
He throws the book down, now feeling less amused than vaguely ill, but can't quite keep himself from connecting the dots on something Milton's written a bit further down, anyhow: _Suicidal behavior v. much in effect also—not directly, but in terms of lacking any measurable sense of personal danger, of inability to delegate, of constant risk-taking. Subject does not appear to care about pain, the threat or inevitability of it, particularly if someone he considers HIS seems directly threatened..._

  
 _Someone I genuinely give a damn about, you mean?_ he wants to snap back, if only to empty air, he wasn't so certain someone might actually hear him do it. Yet in all honesty, how much distinction has he ever really made between, say, someone like Martinez, like Rowan, like Haley—Milton himself, in his moment—and someone like Sarah, like Penny? Original-flavor Philip Blake, back when. Or even...

  
(Rick Grimes, that goddamn little traitor)

  
...him, yes, definitely. Very much so.

  
Aw, it's ridiculous, and even if it _is_ true, it doesn't change a thing. Far too late to make amends now, with all his behaviors already so firmly locked in place; psychotherapy's a luxury, gone with the pre-apocalypse wind. 'Sides which, if he really does instinctively change to fit the people around him, then this could have all gone a whole lot worse: might've ended up with Merle Dixon on the one side and Milton on the other, two different sort of equal-lovesick fools, instead of a man who wants to fight fair even in extremity, a man whose irritating moral qualms the Governor can at least get a sick charge out of trying to meet halfway. A man he admires so much he'd be happy to take whatever abuse Rick cares to dole out, at least in private—surface the next morning wearing his various hurts like jewelry, all bruised and bitten, aching deep inside with every step, at least so long as it'd chain honest Officer Friendly to him all the tighter...

  
'Cause: _Don't need him to love me, not immediately,_ the Governor thinks, open wound where his eye used to be paining him just as sharp as the memory of Penny's second death, a thin layer of badly-healed skin laid overtop infection. _No, all's it'll take is for him to be more afraid of what I'll do to those he_ does _love, he doesn't stay with me...and that I think I got a pretty firm handle on, already._

  
Carl and Lori and the baby, plus that friend of Rick's, that _Shane:_ the stick, then the carrot; the threat, then the cure. Worked well enough for Philip and him when they were kids, with the old man doin' it, and it'll work just as well for him and Rick, the Governor just wants badly enough for it to; he needs somebody to ride herd on him, 'cause bad things happen when nobody does, and there isn't a damn person here strong enough to do it _but_ Rick, when all's said and done. Christ knows, he sure can't do it for himself.

  
 _Just think how bad I could've been, I'd never met you,_ he thinks in Rick's absent direction while still looking down at Milton's notes, tapping the topmost page with one finger, almost idly. _Or Sarah, for that matter..._

  
(Yeah. Just _think_.)

  
Then he flips the whole thing shut again and leaves, not looking back.


	15. Chapter 15

Slipping and sliding, unstuck in time, the Governor sees his life laid out all at once, future and present and past simultaneously, all possibilities played out beforehand like chessboard moves against some unpredictable, invisible opponent, a winning mix of hard-won skill, blind luck and sheer determination. The squares all flipping apart and knitting back together in endless fractal combos, white black black white white white black white _black._ Him now, him then, him yet to be; always _him_ and nobody else, in the final analysis, no matter how many other unlucky folks he happens to suck into his own decaying orbit.

  
( _We all live alone, Brian, and die the same damn way—she won't tell ya that, Philip either, but I will. And that'd be 'cause I'm the last person on earth cares how much hearin' it's gonna hurt, most 'specially for_ you.)

  
Useful enough information, he supposes, though it's not like he'd ever've thanked the old bastard for it. But then again, he never did end up getting the chance to refuse to.

  
There's no one left alive anymore with first-hand knowledge of Brian Blake, he has to remind himself, sometimes; even Rick's only heard of that morose loser sidelong, run through “Philip”'s filter. But the Governor, he remembers all too well every glitch and stutter along the way, the various twists and turns which made up each new iteration of his eternally rejiggered self—being first Brian, then Philip, then himself—so even if the liar does grow to fit the lie, just like people say, he doesn't really feel any different.

  
Had the same unstable mix of passions in him always, at five as well as forty-five, or fifty; the same frail hopes and the same conflicted loves, fist-fighting for precedence behind his browless Viking skull. A part of him will always be his mother's sin and Old Man Blake's shame, Sarah's lover, Penny's rock. Philip's too-bright “little” brother, lanky and glowering, forever sidling his way slyly 'round the edges of things as he figured what was the best plan for cadging his way inside, let alone what mask he'd have cut his face to fit in order to even halfway pretend that he belonged there, once he got past the front door.

Back in the Atlanta camps, things went south pretty quickly: morale broke down first, then procedure, protocol; soldiers started freaking out, seeing themselves as individuals 'stead've part of a whole, and the chain of command dissolved accordingly. Nothin' but bad news in every direction, the CDC gone into lock-down, no more international flights—riots, fires, rumors from New York that someone set off a nuclear bomb downtown. Might've just as likely been true as not, but Philip was getting the feeling that the walls'd be coming down any second and Penny could feel it as well, too scared by the spectre of his own, only barely-concealed worry to sleep, or play, or eat.

  
One afternoon, when a sadly-young soldier they'd never seen before started screaming at everybody he'd come in with to board a bus whose destination was “classified,” Philip came sliding up behind him real quiet with his hands wide-spread and head nodding, voice kept soothingly low, checking from the corner of his eye to see whether or not the kid's holster was done up right. Saying, as he did—

  
“Gotta calm down now, son...I mean, everyone here knows how hard your job is, and appreciates the fine work y'all been doin' on our behalfs. See my little girl where she's standin' over there, though, how she's shakin' like a leaf in the wind? She's _scared,_ and it kinda makes it hard for me to concentrate on anything else—same way we all are, truth to tell. You too, I'll bet.”

  
“Sir, I need you to _please_ step back and sit down—”

  
“Oh, I know, I know—and I will, really, you answer me one quick question, all right? One, and I'm done. Sound fair to you?”

  
“Sir—”

  
“One question only, and that'd be...didn't anybody ever teach you to secure your sidearm, back in boot? Or was that on the final exam and you missed it, on account of the world comin' to an end?”

  
Boy stood there frozen by the halfway mark, non-plussed, and was just opening his mouth to reply by the time Philip'd already snatched the gun out and clapped it to his head, then pulled the trigger. “You trust these assholes?” he'd bawled, without looking 'round, to no one in particular. “No? Me either. So let's get outta here, while the gettin's still good!”

  
 _“Governor,”_ someone—not Martinez—named him, a breathless murmur, half-admiring, half-scared. And from then on it stuck, even as they commandeered the kid's jeep and that wherever-bound bus alike—Martinez at the wheel of the latter, Shumpert riding shotgun, while Philip slid into the former's driver's seat and Milton piled in after him, shoving Penny into his lap, where she hugged him so hard it hurt.

  
Flooring it through the checkpoint, screeching 'round the next corner into the gathering dusk as far too many planes for comfort passed overhead, and Penny clung to him like a monkey. And hearing in his head, all the while: _Love you so much, honey, more than any other single thing in my life...every scrap of love I got, and it's all for you._ With the rest of him occupied solely by calculations, reckonings, strategy; a slick of ice, too cold to be entirely pure, over the roiling lava below.

  
She'd be dead less than a day later, with all of it for nothing if he ever let himself think like that—except that he didn't, he couldn't. Still can't.

Never in life, not even when it's all but done.

  
***

  
And so here he is, finally, at the end of everything: standing beside Rick with a hidden corpse-bite beneath his waistband, biter-poison mounting slow through his veins as Negan taunts them both. Got Carl Grimes on the one hand and Meghan Chambler the other, his longed-for second daughter, only good thing he ever did besides Woodbury; got a hundred armed assholes on either side and the prison at their backs, with no one coming to rescue them and just a single lie left to tell...but oh-so-convincing, that one, especially in context. Christ knows Rick'll do his level best to sell it, once he's played his part.

  
Hot and high and numb, drunk on the scent of his own death like he hasn't been in years, the Governor casts his sole remaining eye down over the battlefield, the chess-board, and feels himself give what he's sure is a singularly scary smile. 'Cause for a guy who never felt all too comfortable _before_ the world fell to shit, he's enjoyed almost every moment of the ride thus far—far more than he should've, probably—and if he has to go out, he'd rather it be as a sacrifice, a weapon, a back-handed sort of hero. The most important person in the non-existent room.

  
(Rick'll do okay, he can just get out of this alive, as both of 'em well know—got friends in all directions, that Miss Michonne eyeing him up the way she used to Andrea, Daryl Dixon ready to climb in bed with either of 'em, or both. Lilly Chambler, too, for that matter; they already like each other fine under most circumstances, so if Rick can bring her back Meghan, she'll follow him to the earth's ends. And maybe they can manage to wash the taste of him out of each other's mouths eventually, with enough effort.)

  
He'll never see any of it, though, and that saddens him; all that hunger left yet unslaked, wasted in the grave. But then again, his eyes always _were_ larger than his stomach, he supposes, in that respect.

  
 _When've you ever been satisfied, Brian, with anything?_ that unknown voice from his black soul's very bottom asks him, dry and cold, amused as ever by his eternal hubris. _Eat 'til you burst if you could, then sick it all up and start over, and what's that get anyone, even you? Nothing into nothing's still nothing, when you add it all together. It's just_ math.

  
Which is true enough, goddamnit. Not to mention about as good a eulogy as he's likely to receive, given, let alone merit.

  
“Ready?” Rick Grimes asks him, under his breath, to which what's left of Brian Blake nods, with quite hilarious equanimity—never more so, really—as he feels the Colt's barrel tuck up under his jaw, and cock. “Go on, Richard,” he replies, equal-low, in that long, last moment. Before adding, as if to some omnipotent judge-executioner, the ultimate passive-aggressive insult-compliment: “...I forgive you.”

  
And: _Fuck YOU, Brian Blake,_ Rick would almost certainly reply if there was time, so it's damn good thing there isn't. Just the click, the snap, the bullet's searing roar—

  
Coming back won't be something he gets to remember, of course, or dying again, after that...only this present pain, here then gone, then red, then black, then blank. Then nothing more, forever.

  
 _Better than I deserve,_ he just might think, however, if he was still able to.

  
THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a bunch of leftover head canon snippets from "This Old Death" and "Death To Everyone," and came out in five- to ten-minute increments. Funny how those apparently add up! I guess I needed to do something directly from the Governor's POV. And now we're done.;)


End file.
